Curveball
by Hidge
Summary: The Blossoms operated in underlying instructions and firm ultimatums; he wasn't sure he had ever had a choice in anything, in his entire life. Clifford muses on his feelings for Penelope. 90s! Parents! Parallels!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** So here's more young Clifford and Penelope! So this is my take on young Clifford - a character crafted from scratch really! Going for sort of a strong, silent, and tortured type. Please let me know what you think!

Warning: brief homophobic language.

 **Disclaimer:** Characters are not mine, but I guess young Clifford kind of is.

* * *

Clifford Blossom approached the very first baseball practice of the season with a great deal of trepidation. He was walking onto the field as a senior and that came with a great deal of expectation. His parents had always been proud of his athletic accomplishments, but now that he was getting older and more singularly pointed towards taking over the family business, he wasn't sure if baseball was something they would deem worthy of his time. He was sure that they would think his priorities should be board meetings, and New York City social events, and other things that he found painfully dull and boring, like hunting and picking out pieces of art.

He really did love baseball. He enjoyed being naturally good at something. He enjoyed the physical exertion. He enjoyed the time away from Thornhill.

As he was literally walking on the field, cleats on and glove in hand, Fred Andrews sprinted out of the dugout and offered him a friendly pat on the back.

"Good to have you back, Cliff!" The team captain called as he raced towards his position at shortstop.

Clifford faltered for a moment before he continued to stride towards the mound. So some of the guys that had been his teammates since the ninth grade hadn't been sure of his return either. That was interesting. They were probably surprised he was even still in school. Asking themselves the question: What did a Blossom want with a high school diploma anyway? The rivers in Riverdale ran maple syrup.

Practice went exactly like he had imagined, exactly like every other year. Warmup. Sprinting. Drills. Batting practice. As a pitcher, his offensive skillset differentiated quite a bit from some of his teammates, but he kept up well. He was still a reliable hitter and baserunner.

Perhaps he would put more effort into batting practice this year, he thought to himself as they all headed to the locker room.

Never one for close friendships or locker room talk, he kept quiet and to himself as he rid himself of his sweaty, dirty practice uniform and showered.

He walked towards his locker with a towel around his waist as he heard Mantle teasing Fred. "Saw you checking out Mary when the cheerleaders were practicing."

Fred shrugged bashfully, a light blush covering his cheeks. "She's pretty."

"You know who got fucking hot this summer?" Mantle retorted with a chuckle. "Blossom's sister!"

Clifford's shoulders tensed and his grip on his locker door tightened.

Hal Cooper echoed the statement with a guffaw. "I saw her walking around town yesterday. She got her braces off and she was wearing these tiny shorts… That ass…" He trailed off with a groan and made an obscene gesture with his hands.

Clifford slammed his locker door shut and Fred eyed him nervously. He knew that most of his peers viewed him as a dangerously dormant volcano.

"Hal," the team captain spoke in warning. "Knock it off."

The blonde boy chuckled, "We're just talking, Andrews. Blossom doesn't mind, do you Blossom?"

The redhaired boy just stared, silent and solemn, with his fists clenched tightly at his sides. He knew that he was possessive of Penelope in a way that he shouldn't be, in a way that some found _unnatural_. He wasn't sure if Hal Cooper was degrading her to get a rise out of him, or if it was actually what he thought. Clifford wasn't sure which scenario he considered worse.

"I think you should stop talking," he stated quietly.

The entire locker room went silent at the sound of his seldom used voice. They could faintly hear dripping from the showers that indicated that someone hadn't turned a knob all the way to the right. The steady _drip-drip_ did nothing to distract anyone from a brewing fistfight.

Hal took a step towards him with a smirk. "You live with her, you've probably snuck a peak. Is she that pale and soft looking everywhere?"

Clifford knew that if he decked Hal Cooper right now there would be repercussions, but he was starting to think that it would be worth it. It would feel so satisfying. That is, until Fred Andrews placed a calming hand on his shoulder.

"Okay, that's enough, cut it out," Fred sighed. "You think he really wants to hear that crap about his sister?"

"I don't know," Hal continued to push, "does he?"

The locker room door swung open with a bang at the most opportune moment. Coach Weatherbee stepped into the row of lockers where almost the entire team was gathered, and looked at them all suspiciously.

"Everything okay in here, boys?" He questioned.

"Just fine, Coach," Fred answered quickly.

With a deep breath, Clifford turned back to his locker and grabbed a fresh change of clothes. He shouldn't let Hal Cooper, of all people, get under his skin so easily.

* * *

He stepped through Penelope's open bedroom door and took a moment to look at her before he made his presence known. She was typically so observant that he didn't get many of these moments. To just look, and appreciate.

She was lying on her bed, on her stomach, propped up on her elbows, with her nose buried in a book, and Marty Mantle was right – she had gotten so much prettier over the summer. Not that she hadn't been beautiful before; she just seemed a lot more sure of herself now, of who she was and what she wanted. She smiled a lot more freely now that she didn't wear braces, and she would sometimes wear her hair down, long, fiery locks falling over her shoulders in soft waves. He particularly enjoyed it when she let down her braid before bed. She was _so_ pretty, and not entirely aware of the power she had over him.

He was scared of what could happen if she ever found out.

"What are you reading?" He asked softly as he laid down on the bed beside her.

She turned to face him with a smile. "Just Shakespeare," she answered nonchalantly. "How was practice?"

He shrugged. "Fine."

"I can't wait to see you play," she offered supportively. "But you always look so serious." She giggled and teased him by reaching towards him and tapping the end of his nose.

He surrendered a laugh and quickly grabbed her hand so that he could hold it in his own. He tangled their fingers and brought her hand to his mouth for a gentle kiss. He watched her eye him hesitantly, her bottom lip between her teeth, as he kissed the back of her hand for a second time. He knew that their feelings for each other were _different_ , to say the least. She had told him mere months ago that she wanted to stay with him, in Thornhill, but they hadn't actually discussed what that meant.

Their relationship had barely changed since her declaration. They cuddled sometimes, and spent the night together, but that was it.

But he couldn't resist showing her physical affection every now and then. She was his partner after all.

"Clifford, I have something to tell you," she spoke nervously.

"Go ahead."

"Darryl Doiley asked me to go on a date, and I said yes."

His jaw tightened and he deliberately swallowed before he spoke. "Okay." He supposed that it could be worse. She could be going on a date with Hal Cooper.

"I wanted to tell you," she whispered shyly, "because I didn't want you to think that I…"

"What?" He questioned eagerly.

"That I was trying to keep secrets from you. I'm not. He just really seems to like me." He raised his other hand to brush his thumb along her cheek as it flushed with colour. "No one has ever really liked me before, other than you."

"What's wrong with that?" He had barely noticed another girl since the age of eight, and he had never particularly cared whether or not he was liked.

"Nothing," she replied quickly. "I just need to see, okay?"

He wasn't entirely sure what she meant by that – she needed to see what exactly? But he could tell that she was serious and determined, so he nodded reluctantly. "Okay."

He wasn't sure if he would be as understanding if Doiley laid one greasy finger on her.

* * *

The night of Penelope's date, he impatiently waited downstairs for her to get ready like some kind of Southern father with shotgun in hand. He would much rather this entire thing not be happening at all, but he was trying to be _open-minded_. It was proving rather difficult.

Whatever she needed to figure out, he hoped she did it quickly, and preferably without the necessity of being in the backseat of some dilapidating car with roaming, teenage boy hands.

"Wow," he exhaled as he watched Penelope finally descend the stairs. She was wearing a rather old-style of dress – long-sleeved, knee length, buttoned to the collar – of some material that he couldn't name, but it looked soft to the touch, and she looked _wonderful_. The deep burgundy colour of the dress contrasted nicely with her skin and her white boots, and she was wearing her hair down. "You look beautiful," he said louder once she was within his reach. He grabbed her hand and pulled her into him so that they were practically chest to chest. "Are you sure you don't want to stay in tonight?" He asked with a smile.

"Clifford," she chastised.

"I could cook?" He tried to bargain.

She arched an elegantly groomed eyebrow. "You don't cook."

"I can reheat," he grinned. His hand fell to rest in the small of her back and he could feel something tighten and coil in his chest. "He's not going to appreciate how exquisite you look anyhow."

She placed both of her hands on his shoulders and smirked knowingly. "You never did like to share."

He groaned audibly as she deliberately trailed her hand down his arm as she passed by. "You're admitting you belong to me?" He called with a hint of triumph in his voice as he followed her through the foyer.

She spun around to look at him and dramatically rolled her eyes. "Belonging implies some degree of reciprocity."

Feeling uncharacteristically playful, probably because their parents were out of town, he grabbed her by the hips and tugged her close. "How are you so smart?"

"Because I pay attention in class," she teased.

He chuckled and squeezed her waist. "Penelope, I—"

He was interrupted by the echoing of their doorbell – meaning that her _date_ was here.

She smiled up at him and leaned forward to place a kiss on his cheek. She promptly brushed her thumb over his cheek, mostly likely cleaning up a lipstick mark that she had left behind. "Don't worry about me, Clifford," she spoke softly. "I'll be home soon."

He nodded with pursed lips and reluctantly released her from his hold.

* * *

Fred Andrews was persistent in his quest for friendship, or team camaraderie at the very least, and that's how Clifford found himself sitting on the sofa in the small family home in the most suburban part of town. He sat up straight, like he had been instructed to do his entire life, and watched Fred slouch over his knees as they watched the Yankees on the television.

"Do you want any chips?" Fred asked as he reached for the bowl of chips on the coffee table.

"No, thank you," he answered politely.

"Beer?" Fred grinned as Clifford looked at him questioningly. "Ma would rather I drink here than at some post-game party."

Clifford pondered the offer for a moment, he was not about to vocalize that Fred did drink at those post-game parties. He was curious. He had never tasted beer before, Blossoms were wine and scotch drinkers. "Sure, why not?"

The dark-haired boy bounded off of the couch and practically sprinted to the kitchen. He brought back two cold cans of beer and handed him one with a grin. "Bottoms up, Blossom!"

Clifford tentatively sipped from the can and found that he was not entirely repulsed by the taste. He was sure that his father would say that he had a working class palette now.

"So," Fred began after he wiped his mouth, "any girls at school you like?"

Clifford slowly shook his head. "No, I don't have a lot of time to date I suppose."

"Every guy our age has time to date," he chuckled. "There has to be someone that's caught your eye?"

Clifford stared down at the beer can in his hand and fiddled with the tab. Where he wasn't particularly familiar with friends, no one had ever asked him about something as simple as girls. He had never talked about the girl he liked before – and who the hell was Fred Andrews going to tell?

He had always seemed like a pretty good guy…

"There is this one girl," he murmured cautiously. "I've liked her for a while, but she doesn't feel the same way about me."

It wasn't like Penelope was head over heels for Darryl Doiley or anything. Their date hadn't exactly been a resounding, romantic success. But apparently it had been some sort of weird courting announcement for the entire town – Penelope Blossom was dating! Something neither Blossom had ever done before, and she had received invitation after invitation from boys both older and younger, that she had strategically kept from their parents of course.

Watching her go on first date after first date wasn't exactly his favourite pastime. That possessive, animal like shadow just coiled tighter and tighter in his chest.

"Have you asked her?" Clifford nodded. Fred hesitated before he boldly asked, "Are we talking about Penelope?"

Clifford whipped his head towards the other boy and narrowed his eyes into an ice cold glare.

Fred was quick to defensively raise his hands. "I'm not-t trying to," he stuttered, "this isn't, like, blackmail or anything. When we uh, when we had detention together, Penelope said some things. She's not really your sister?" He inquired sensitively.

The redhead cleared his throat before he responded. "No, she's not."

"And your parents want you to get married some day?"

"More or less," he muttered. "She knows how to be a Blossom, what will be expected of her. That is the entire point."

As he spoke, he tried not to dwell on how much he sounded like his father.

Fred paused before he tilted his head and probed. "You don't have to, ya know? Who you marry, well that should be your choice, Cliff."

"You don't get it, Andrews," Clifford bit back in frustration. "I want to and she doesn't."

Fred's mouth dropped open in shock, as if that was the last response he expected. "Oh, shit, I didn't mean, I was just…" He ran a hand over his face and groaned over his own inarticulate words. "And by want to, you also mean…?" He trailed off with a wave of his hand.

Clifford gritted his teeth and pulled at his perfectly combed hair in frustration. "Do I have to spell it out, Andrews?"

"Sorry," Fred apologized quickly. "I'm not trying to judge you or anything, man. What Penelope talked about is… _heavy_. You have to give her a choice."

Clifford finished his beer and laid the empty can down on the coffee table. "Choice," he pondered quietly.

The Blossoms operated in underlying instructions and firm ultimatums; he wasn't sure he had ever had a choice in anything, in his entire life. And now he was sitting on a middle-class sofa listening to Fred Andrews tell him that Penelope had to _choose_ him. As if her whole life hadn't already been laid out for her…

"How?" He asked eagerly, his body turning on the couch to fully face Fred.

Fred Andrews smirked excitedly. "Oh Blossom, we're going to need more beer."

* * *

The first game of the season. The home opener. The first win. The first post-game party at Marty Mantle's house.

Clifford had pitched seven scoreless innings, and as a result, he was receiving a lot more attention than he was comfortable with. Pats on the back from his teammates and other guys at school. Cups of foamy beer enthusiastically shoved into his hand. Girls from a few of his classes winking at him and stroking his chest and forearm as he moved through the crowded house.

But it wasn't what he wanted.

What he wanted was currently in the kitchen in blue jeans and a white sweater being cornered by Hal Cooper.

He approached them after taking a deep breath, his conversation with Fred Andrews was at the back of his mind, but it was not important right now.

"Can I help you, Cooper?" He asked as he tucked himself behind Penelope, keeping direct eye contact with his least favourite teammate.

"No," the blonde answered quickly. "You are definitely not the Blossom that I'm interested in."

Hal reached out, his fingers inching towards the belt loops on Penelope's jeans, and Clifford grasped his wrist before he could touch her. "Don't even think about it," he warned.

"Oh, but I already have." He looked up at Penelope so that he could send her a wink.

Clifford shifted, so that he was standing between her and Hal instead. "I think you should go," he growled, "before Alice Smith finds another reason to castrate you."

Hal just huffed and laughed. "I can't figure you out, Blossom. I don't know if you're a faggot or if you really just want to fuck your sister."

Fred Andrews and Tom Keller must have sensed the cusp of a fight because all of a sudden they sidled up to the two boys with fake grins.

"Celebrating our win?" Tom asked with a chuckle.

Neither of them answered.

Surprisingly, Penelope interjected. She placed both of her hands on Clifford's back and said, "Clifford was just about to go outside to get some air."

She gave him a few forceful shoves before he surrendered and took long strides out of the house.

The two Blossoms stood on the back porch and he turned to face her with a tight jaw.

"Why do you do that?" She asked with a loud sigh.

"I'm sorry," was all he offered before he walked away.

* * *

He awoke to a whisper in his ear and thin fingers moving through his hair. He rolled over onto his back with a low groan and blinked the sleep out of his eyes so that he could focus on the other person suddenly in his bed. Red hair and pale skin was lying beside him with her head against her closed fist and a thin smile on her lips.

"Penelope?" He asked huskily.

She placed a finger on his lips to shush him. "It's not morning yet," she told him in a whisper.

He could see that, it was still quite dark in his bedroom. And he wanted to ask what she was doing. And why she was here when she had been so mad at him earlier. He wanted to ask if she wanted someone like Hal Cooper, but he stayed silent.

She slowly ran her fingers along his jaw, down his neck, and then across his chest. His breath hitched at the action. He wanted her, desperately, and he had denied himself any kind of physical release because of it. By the time her palm settled over his thundering heart, he was practically panting.

"What would you do for me?" She asked in a voice that had taken on a dark, silky quality, a tone that he had never heard from her before.

"Anything," he answered without thinking.

"You love me?"

He nodded in confirmation.

"You want me?"

One of his hands covered hers on his chest and he corrected her question. "I _need_ you."

She moved to stand and his eyes closed in defeat. He had said the wrong thing. His father was right about him, he always said the wrong thing. He sat up to follow her, reaching out a hand, but his brow furrowed in confusion when she simply stood by the bed instead of running to the door. He stared at her curiously as she ran a hand through her long hair and gathered it over one shoulder. He was about to ask her what she was doing when she reached underneath the hem of her oversized Wham! t-shirt and pulled down her panties. He watched in shocked fascination as the beige cotton stopped at her knees and she kicked them off the rest of the way.

"Penelope," he rasped.

"Don't say anything, Clifford. You'll make me more nervous than I already am."

She climbed back onto the bed and, with a shake of her head, she crawled into his lap, straddling his thighs. His hands automatically went to her hips as she draped her arms over his shoulders.

His hands slowly traced the delicate dip of her waist, and he moved his fingers over her bare forearms and clothed shoulders. He sighed as he felt her silky hair between his digits, and finally, he cupped her face. He knew that she wanted him to stay mute, but he just couldn't resist.

"You're perfect," he breathed.

She smiled and leaned into his touch. "You think too much of me, Clifford."

He opened his mouth to protest, but she had pulled his face closer to hers. Both of her hands were wrapped around his neck, her fingernails scraping the sensitive skin beneath his hairline. She pressed her mouth against his hungrily and he returned her enthusiasm. He moaned loudly as she nipped at his bottom lip and timidly flicked her tongue against his mouth.

 _Choice_ , bounced around his head as he kissed her. Maybe he understood the concept a little better now.

He rolled them over onto the other side of the mattress so that she was on her back and he was on top of her. She raised her knees so that his body was cradled between her hips, and her nails ran across his shoulders and down his back, sending shivers down his spine.

"Clifford," she murmured against his lips.

He found it difficult to stop his eager kisses, but he eventually needed a breath. "Yes, darling?"

"I don't know if we should be doing this," she began nervously. The part of her that loved to follow rules was clearly taking over. "What if mother and father find us?"

He angled his head so that he could place soft kisses on her neck. "They can't punish us for something they've encouraged, Penelope."

She sighed – his lips must have found a particularly sensitive spot. "I don't think they had this in mind."

He raised his head and looked down at her in confusion. "What do you mean?" He took slow, deep breaths to calm himself; however, her hands on his abdomen were hard to ignore.

She looked up at him with wide, brown eyes, a shy expression that was slowly transforming into a mischievous grin. "I'd venture to guess that they don't want us to enjoy it, and certainly not before marriage."

His brain only focused on one part of that statement. He was no more experienced than she was, but he had certainly thought about it enough. "You're enjoying this?"

She rolled her eyes. "Sometimes you're so proper and well-bred that I forget you're a teenage boy, and then _that_."

He returned to kissing her neck and chuckled against her skin. She released another involuntary sigh and it made his stomach tighten. His hips reflexively bucked against hers and it was his turn to release an involuntary sound – a groan only comparable to an animal. Her t-shirt had ridden up… and she was so warm…

"Penelope," he growled.

Her fingernails pressed into his lower back. "Clifford," she gasped, "I think we need to stop."

* * *

 **A/N:** To be continued?!


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Penelope's POV!

 **Disclaimer:** Not mine!

* * *

"I'm sorry."

Penelope huffed in a mixture of frustration and annoyance as she watched Clifford walk across the yard. She stared at his back, his name on her lips, but ultimately said nothing. She ran a hand through her hair that she had decided to leave down tonight and wished that she had worn lighter clothing than the sweater she had on. She was feeling flushed and she attributed it to the heat of the party, rather than consider it to be Hal Cooper's attention or Clifford's possessive streak.

She figured she was gone long enough to draw attention when Fred Andrews stepped onto the back porch and looked at her with a tentative smile.

She shot him a cold glare, her conditioned response to anyone in the Midnight Club.

"Where's Cliff?" He asked softly.

She shrugged, outwardly expressing her annoyance. "He just walked away."

Fred took a few steps towards her before he uttered, "The way he feels about you is… complicated."

She continued to glare. Who the hell did Fred Andrews think he was?

"Clifford is temperamental," she retorted.

This was about her brother; this wasn't about her.

Fred sighed and took yet another step closer. "Penelope, come on," he whispered, "we were friends once before." He continued talking when she lifted her head and looked at him with an open curiosity. "So talk to me now."

The redhead leaned back on the porch railing and sighed. "I never know what he's thinking," she confessed. "He's so hard to read."

Fred looked down at his shoes and chuckled. "The Iceman Cometh."

Penelope furrowed her brow. "What does Eugene O'Neill have to do with this?"

He shook his head in disbelief, most likely on her identification of that play and playwright. "No, no, not, I can't believe you know that," he muttered to himself. "Cliff plays like he has ice in his veins. Nothing phases him. Nothing rattles him. When he pitches," he stopped talking to whistle. "It's art. It's mastery. He has total and complete command of every. Single. Pitch."

He spoke slowly so that she wouldn't get lost in the baseball metaphors.

"But around you, I think he feels anything but that," he finished quietly.

She chewed on her bottom lip as she processed his words. His teammates and his classmates didn't know what to make of Clifford Blossom most of the time. He was raised to be a chivalrous, reserved, cultured gentleman. Well-bred. Well-groomed. Well-dressed. He was someone a little out of place in his time. Certainly better suited to the 90s in a different century. She actually liked that about him, and she knew that Clifford was an entirely different person around her. He was still all of those things but he was generally more talkative, more sincere, certainly less robotic than he was around his peers. Sometimes he was downright playful and lighthearted with her.

She had never considered that there were varying reasons for his different behaviour.

"I rattle him?" She asked after a lengthy silence.

Fred nodded in confirmation. "You definitely rattle him."

She nodded as well as she suppressed a smirk. There was a certain power in knowing that she could break Clifford Blossom's perfectly polished and practiced exterior.

* * *

Her heart felt like it was actively trying to escape her chest and her breathing was absolutely out of control. His lips were on her neck and she could feel him, hard and heavy, between her legs. Her cheeks, neck, and upper chest flushed instantly. She had an aroused, half clothed teenage boy on top of her and it all felt too much all of a sudden.

She had never gone this far with a boy before, she had barely even kissed one.

It had seemed like a brilliant idea after Fred Andrews brought her home in his dirty pickup truck.

Clifford _wanted_ her. And maybe she wanted him too, that part was the most terrifying.

He growled her name and she pressed her fingernails into the damp skin of his lower back in response. She found her voice enough to gasp, "Clifford, I think we need to stop."

He raised his head and quickly shifted so that he held himself above her on his hands, the majority of his body weight off of hers. It granted her the opportunity to take a much needed breath. She gently ran her hands along his sides as she stared up at him. His eyes were a dark midnight blue and his nostrils flared while he took steady breaths.

When he finally spoke, it was in a deep, rough voice. "If you want."

She wasn't entirely sure what to say, how to explain this to him, all that she could offer was a weak, "I need to think."

He nodded and shifted onto his side, one of his legs slipped in between hers and he moved his arm to wrap around her waist. He smiled at her as he said, "I like this, being close to you."

She smiled back and raised a hand to stroke his cheek. "I kinda like sneaking into your bed," she admitted with a girlish giggle.

Clifford grinned and tugged her even closer. "It is always a wonderful surprise."

She leaned in to softly press her lips to his before she made a move to slide out of the bed. However, his hold on her reflexively tightened.

"Where are you going?" He asked in a murmur.

"I just, uh," she felt herself blush as she spoke, "was going to put my panties back on."

His response was practically automatic. "Don't."

His fingers grasped the material of the t-shirt at her hip and she shivered. She could see the taut muscles from his bicep down to his forearm, the physical evidence of his restraint. She wrapped her fingers around his elbow and gently tickled the thin skin there. "Do you think you can control yourself?" She asked with an arch of an eyebrow. She meant to tease him, but the question hung in the air.

He growled and pressed his forehead against hers. "There are so many things I want to do to you, but right now, I think we should sleep."

She nodded and wrapped her hand fully around his arm so that she could hold it tight to her chest. Much like the first time she shared a bed with him, she basked in the warmth, and the tenderness, and the satisfaction of knowing that someone wanted her the way that he did.

* * *

Penelope awoke in Clifford's embrace, his arms around her waist and her head tucked under his chin. They were laying chest to chest with their legs tangled together, and she could feel the steady beat of his heart. She pulled away so that she could tilt her head up to look at him and she smiled at how utterly peaceful he looked. She had never seen him look so at ease. She took the opportunity to gently trace his prominent jawline and cheekbones.

He stirred, emitting a soft groan, and his hands on her lower back tightened. "You smell so good," he murmured. He slowly dipped his head and buried his nose in her hair. "It still feels early."

She glanced at the bedside clock over his shoulder and nodded. "It's not even seven," she confirmed.

And the Blossoms always did brunch on Sundays, which meant that they had several more hours to sleep in. Sunday was the one day of the week that it was acceptable to be a little lazy, at least until they went to their evening church service.

Her fingers moved up to touch the shell of his ear as he pressed his lips to her neck, just below her jaw. One of his hands glided up her back until it was cupping her skull, his fingers tangled in her hair. "How did you sleep?" He breathed.

She shivered at his touch and tried not to answer with a break in her voice. "Good. You?"

"Really good."

She felt his tongue brush against her skin and she gasped. She had felt a lot braver last night, in the dark, with the alcohol from the party still coursing through her. She wasn't sure how to process all of this physical contact, and desire, in the light of day.

She gasped again, much louder this time, when his teeth grazed the sensitive skin of her collarbone. "Clifford."

He hummed. "I had a dream about you last night, before you woke me," he revealed.

"What was it about?"

"This."

Her breath stuttered again as the hand not in her hair cupped her behind. "Clifford." She spoke his name again and grabbed both of his shoulders. "What are we doing?"

"You've thought about this before, right?" A touch of insecurity coloured his voice. However, his touch was firm, confident, and insistent.

Her silence was enough.

He abruptly pulled away and looked at her with a furrowed brow. "Do you think about me, Penelope?" He asked, a sad resignation coming into his voice. "At all?"

"Of course," she responded. "You're my best friend."

She knew that was not what he wanted to hear. But at least it was the truth.

He frowned and deliberately created space between them. "I think I'm going to go for a run," he muttered.

She sighed as she shifted onto her back. She watched him as he got out of bed and walked towards the door. He had developed a habit of running away from her when she said something that he didn't want to hear. She wasn't sure what to do about that yet.

She was surprised when he returned to the room only minutes later, but it gave her the opportunity to say what was on her mind.

"I don't know what you want from me, Clifford."

"Yes. You do," he snapped. He brushed a hand through his hair as he looked at her. "I don't know what _you_ want, Penelope. One minute you're all over me and the next you're pushing me away." He heaved a sigh and slowly walked towards the bed. He sat down on the very edge of the mattress and murmured quietly, "You said you wanted to stay with me."

She sat up in the bed and pushed her own hair out of her face. "I did, and I do."

"Then show me," he challenged.

* * *

At some point during the afternoon, Penelope found herself wandering around the Blossom property and she eventually ended up amongst the maples. The ultimate symbol of Blossom legacy, opulence, and tradition. All things that she was brought, not born, into. All things that would be Clifford's someday.

The question that she had taken a walk to ponder was: what role did she want to play in all of that?

And deep down, she already knew the answer. She wanted the wealth. She wanted the power that went along with being the lady of Thornhill. She liked the control that she could have over Clifford. That was an absolutely exhilarating feeling.

There was a reason that she had been so comfortable as the Game Master. It suited her. She was intelligent, observant, astute. She deserved to be in control.

But at what cost? Was it worth giving up on her dreams? Was it worth staying in this horrible family? Was it worth marrying a man that she didn't love? Could she grow to love Clifford?

 _"_ _Do you think about me, Penelope? At all?"_

She sighed as she reached out and pressed her hand against the trunk of one of the tallest maple trees on the property. It was actually amazing to think that she had all of these difficult decisions to make because of something as simple and insignificant as maple syrup.

What would happen if she just burned it all down?

She turned her head as she heard the telltale crunching of footsteps on the ground behind her. As she had expected, Clifford had come to find her, and she offered him a small smile.

"I was just thinking," she began in a soft voice, "your entire future is controlled by these very trees. Isn't that ridiculous?"

"Ours," he corrected promptly. "Our future. This will all be ours someday."

She nodded as she ran her fingers along the coarse bark. She supposed she should find the idea of that strangely romantic.

"If you want," he added almost as a breath.

She fully turned towards him, and after a moment of silent contemplation, she grabbed him by the front of his sweater and tugged him towards her. He was a head taller than her, but he dipped his head so that their mouths could meet. She stumbled a little under the force of his kiss and her back collided with the very tree that had collected her most intimate thoughts.

She clung to his broad shoulders as she licked at the inside of his mouth. He grunted, tilted his head so that he changed the angle of the kiss, and slipped his hand into the front of her riding pants.

The irony and the symbolism was not lost on her – Clifford Blossom gave her her very first orgasm against a maple tree.

* * *

 **A/N:** I already know where I'm going with the next installment! Having way too much fun with this honestly. Please leave a review! :)


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